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This is the blog of Ian Rosales Casocot. Filipino writer. Sometime academic. Former backpacker. Twink bait. Hamster lover.


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Sunday, May 16, 2010

entry arrow9:13 AM | Mountain lions

By Jacob Walse Dominguez

1.

I always thought that mountain lions
weren’t real. Imagine
my surprise when up here,
I saw one. Rumors abounded—
there wasn’t one at all, my eyes
were only playing tricks on me,
at least the old ones said. Someone
told me the lion was dead, he wasn’t
there at all. Another said he
moved to another mountain. But I saw
him. He was brown and quiet
and he slinked among us unseen
save for small glances. He was here.

2.

Zapped by impulse I took
a red motorcycle down
the mountain, red skies kissing
my face with anticipation.

Down in the city I got
a pack of Camels, walked
in the sweltering heat and
found the lion between books

except

he wasn’t a mountain lion at all,
at least not anymore because
upon closer inspection

he had a collar and leash.

3.

I think I got on the lion’s back,
I remember running my fingers
through his coarse mane and
tugging, smelling it. It smelled like
the sun. Like the salt of the sea.
Like the dust of the city. I was told that
these lions smelled of pine and earth,
of sun and water. Of the sun part,
they were right.

I remember the seaside
the lion’s paw on the small
of my back—the breathlessness:
I remember that.

I know the lion’s breath was
warm and panting.

Drunk
with the ocean’s song I smiled
and rum-eyed,

I kissed him.

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